Life Continues
by FirinMahLazor
Summary: Three years after Sherlocks apparent death, John is once again living alone, away from Baker Street. And then, the man he thought was dead, is not.Spoilers from The Richenbach Falls
1. Chapter 1

Seven forty three AM John reaches his hand over to press the button on the top of the alarm clock, and swings his legs out of bed, stuffing his feet into an old pair of tartan slippers. He pulls on an old dressing gown, and drops his phone into the right hand pocket.

Kitchen. Kettle on. Tea bag. Mug. Pot. Bread. Toaster.

The kettle boils and he makes up the pot, before pouring himself a cupful, milk, two sugars. He ignores the photo on the mantle and settles himself into his usual chair, and switches the tv to the morning news. He takes out his phone and checks his texts. Work, work, a woman he met in the library. Boring. He fetches the toast from the toaster, and thickly spreads it with jam.

He eats quickly, showers, gets dressed, collects wallet, phone, keys. At eight seventeen AM he locks the door behind him.

He takes the tube to the surgery. He stands up, and he reads the Metro. Kidnapping. Crashed truck. Boring.

He had never got around to actually admitting to himself that there was only one name he was looking for in the news.

Fifth stop, up the steps, into the deliriously bright spring sun. The sky is watery, like a soaked paintbrush has been wiped across it, mingling the blues and yellows and whites into each other.

At his office, he makes a cup of tea, milk, two sugars, swaps his heavy knit jumper for his white lab coat and settles down. He ignores the newspaper cutting on the wall. First patient, woman, 24, possible pregnancy confirmed. Second patient, girl, 5, chickenpox, recovering. Third patient. New man, just moved to the city, 33. Check medical history, check heart rate, check blood rate. Confirmed in full health.

Before he opens the door however, he turns to John. "'Ere, you been on telly on summin? You look right familiar..."

"Of a sort." John smiles, and turns away before the man can inquire further.

Lunch break next, switch lab coat back to jumper, ignore the newspaper clipping on the wall. John leaves the surgery, and heads down the road to a small cafe he frequents while at work. Just before he enters, he happens to glance up the road. He pauses. On the corner of the street there is a man, standing by a lamp post.

Ordinary

He is wearing a well tailored suit.

Ordinary

He has thick, curly, dark hair.

Ordinary

And a long, black, felt trench coat with the collar turned up.

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><p>John blinks as a woman hurrys past, blocking the man from view. The woman leaves. The man is gone. John shakes his head, and steps inside. On the door handle, his left hand is shaking.<p>

He briefly, subconsciously, toys with the idea of going after the man, but instead opts for coffee, black, no sugar.

Back at work, four patients. Flu, broken rib, tea break. Check phone. Rash on arm, arthritis. Change from lab coat to jumper, check phone. The woman on reception waves at he leaves. He nods politely, makes no other move to interact on any level. Back on the tube, his phone vibrates,

Drinks tonight, Queens Arms, 8pm? - Stamford

Sounds good, see you then - JW

Off the tube, John looks up at the iron grey sky. As he's walking up the road, he momentarily has the feeling of being watched. No one behind him. Continue. When he reaches the door, He turns the key in the lock. Inside, shoes off, ignore the photo on the mantle, pour the cold tea out of the pot. Shower. Same jeans, clean shirt. Check clock. Six thirty seven. Searching the fridge, be begins to make dinner for one.

While he eats, he checks his emails. Spam, boring, facebook, boring, comment on his blog, ignore. Browse the medical journals. Boring.

Quarter to eight. Close laptop, drop dishes in sink, fetch wallet, phone, keys, ignore the photo on the mantle, out the door.

Five minutes away from the pub, he feels his phone vibrate.

Dropping Amy at friends, will be ten mins late - S

He pushes open the door of the pub, and is greeted by the heady smell of stale tobacco, spilled beer and the beeswax used to rub down the tables. A few men nod to him as he walks to the bar. "Evening John, usual?"

"Please."

He slides onto a bar stool, next to a man in a button down shirt. However, the second he sits down, the man turns from him, pulls on a jacket and quickly strides to the door. He was gone before John had seen his face. As he reaches into his pocket for cash, he notices his left hand is shaking. "Um, George, who was that?" He gestures over his shoulder as money and alcohol change hands.

"Dunno. New bloke. Quiet type."

He leaves to serve some new customers, and leaves John to his pint. Sanford arrives presently. They talk about work, house prices. Order pints. Works, Amy's school. Pint. Stanford's wife. Johns lack of one. "You've been on your own too long now John. Why don't you look for another flat mate?"

John ignores him, and orders another pint.


	2. Chapter 2

The week continues under the same regime. Wake, tea, milk, two sugars, work ignore the newspaper clipping, home, ignore the photo on the mantle, food. The same old routine. Occasionally he goes out with Stanford in the evenings. Four times he had gone for drinks with Lestrade. More often he stays in. Read, clean the flat, think. He hates thinking. It's almost as bad as sleeping. On weekends, sometimes Harry comes down to see him. They get on better these days. Sometimes she brings her girlfriend.

Every day he reads the paper. Sometimes he watches the news. He doesn't know why any more. It's just a routine.

For the rest of the week his left hand does not shake. It puts it out of mind, turns all his attention to his patients.

Then it is Saturday. The night before he had been looking through his wardrobe, and had finally come to the conclusion that new shirts were needed. His own are rather worn.

So Saturday morning, he sleeps late, eats his toast and jam, drinks his tea, milk, two sugars, ignores the photo on the mantle, takes his wallet, phone, keys and heads into the center of London. It is afternoon. He walks along the busy streets, looking in the odd window, staying out of peoples way, stays out of the way of the harassed business men, stressed parents, lost tourists.

He goes to one of the small department shops for shirts. He buys four. Not expensive, but of decent quality, plain, a little loose fitting. It does not take him long. Half an hour at best. Back out in the street, he walks to a chair coffee store not too far from Tower Bridge. He watches the people walk past, and he plays a game with himself. A game he has not played in a long time. He tries to guess people professions.

He was not good at it then, and he has been out of practice for a long time. He does not know why he is playing it now.

Teacher.

Nurse.

Shop assistant.

Director.

Accountant.

House husband.

Student - drama

And so forth, until it becomes Boring.

He is amazed when he looks at his watch, and sees that the game has entertained him for almost an hour. He looks skywards. Pale gray has turned to the colour of wet ash. And despite the bleak sky, it is not a bad evening as such. So he decides to go for a walk before he goes home. He picks up his shopping bag, and sets off along the road, though the thinning crowds, up to the bridge. He pauses, to look into the dark water.

He sets off, walking along the streets, as they slowly grower darker. He looses track of time again, when he looks up to find himself in a vaguely recognizable street. He realizes what has bought him back to his senses, he can hear foot steps behind him in the otherwise deserted street. By the sound if it, John guesses it is two men, and glances over his shoulder, to see exactly two, heavy built men, hats pulled down low, a short distance behind him.

He speeds up a little, and turns down into a different street. He can still hear the men behind him. He speeds up. So do they. Another side street now and still they follow him. He feels a sense of panic rising. They're gaining on him as he starts to run. Faster, they're coming, go _faster._ Oh god, they're so close, FASTER. As a last resort, he dives down a side alley, and trips on a disguarded bin bag.

He hears himself let out a strangled cry as a hand grabs the back of his jacket, and he's pulled backwards. Eyes shut, he feels himself slammed against a wall, and a body press against him, as everything goes dark.

He hears the men run past.

Confused, he opens his eyes, to see a tall man stepping back, extracting his coat from where it had been covering John. He looked up. He gasped.

"What in gods name are doing here Sherlock?"


	3. Chapter 3

Hello lovlies. Thank you for reading, it does mean a lot... Right, now some of John's reaction is canon to the books, deal. And yes there is some fluff. Review and I will send you kisses via postal order. Respecticals to my women. You know who you are. Love x

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><p>Sherlock stepped back, and looked up and down the alley. "Right, it's ok, I think they've gone..." He started to calmly readjust his collar from where it had become flattened when Sherlock had used his coat to cover them both. "John, I...-"<p>

He was instantly interrupted from what would probably have been flawless and highly scientific deduction of the situation, as John felt himself pull back his right fist, and swing hard and fast at Sherlock's oh-so-mysterious left cheekbone. The force of the blow caused Sherlock to fall backwards against the wall behind him, hand clamped to the side of his face. He slid down the wall, and looked up at John, with an expression that could have been considered pitiful. "I suppose normal people would say I deserved that."

And then, for the first and last time in his life, John fainted.

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><p>When he woke up, he found himself in his bed, in his flat. There was a glass of brandy on his bedside table, which he assumed had been used to help revive him. From the kitchen, he could hear the sounds of tea being made. He rubbed one hand across his face, and with a click, everything came flooding back to him. He threw himself out of bed and launched himself into the small, plain kitchen-come-living space. All his fears, and hopes, and suspicions suddenly came true.<p>

Sherlock was standing next to the kettle, waiting for it to boil. His coat was draped a little ungracefully over the single chair next to the low table. John watched him, as he opened the cupboard by his head and found the tea bags, pot, cups, sugar. He took the milk out of the fridge. He looked so calm. He looked so real. The faint bruise on Johns knuckles seemed desperate to prove this.

"Three years..." He knew it had been a whisper. He knew Sherlock had heard him. Sherlock turned slowly to face him.

"THREE SODDING YEARS SHERLOCK. Why the HELL are you alive? You were dead! Dead! I was at your funeral! I saw you fa-... I saw you fall. Sherlock, you left, you were dead, and I was... And now you're... oh god." John broke off. He could feel tears rising in his chest, and wiped his hand over his face again. He knew Sherlock would be watching him, noting and analyzing everything John was dong, his shaking frame, his tone of voice, the dampness of his face, because he _ was_ crying, and why shouldn't he.

He heard the kettle boil. He felt Sherlock guide him across the room to the only chair in the house, throw the coat aside, and push him back so that he was sat down.

"John... look at me John..." He said his name like a prayer. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock watching him, carefully, crouching on the floor, elbows on knees, palms pressed together under his chin. "John... I am... so sorry. Believe me when I say I am sorry. If I could have made it happen any other way I would have done. If I had not... Moriarty would have see to your death. And... I couldn't have handled that John..."

John looked down at the man in front of him, legs much too long to fold gracefully, the same stray curl going all the places it wasn't meant to.

"So how did you think I would feel?"

For a moment Sherlock's eyes widened. He seemed to freeze for just one second, and for once, John thought he had actually manged to surprise him. And then, he was gone again, on the other side of the kitchen, kettle in hand, busying to make the tea. John turned to the mantle. There, was an old photo Mrs Hudson had taken three years previously, on new years. Neither John nor Sherlock had noticed she had taken it, until she have it to John the day he moved out. From the frame, the two men were laughing at each other, heads bent forwards, sharing some private joke, the only photo of them together, happy, that had not been published in the papers. And John looked at it.

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><p>SO. I'll try to carry on soon, I promise. I love you, and I hope you like it, and please review (kisses remember) LATERZ x<p> 


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